The Time Of Life For Pure Pleasure
Newcastle Herald
Thursday March 25, 1999
A UNT Lizzie May would have loved Seniors' Week.
She snuffed it before they had seniors. Only old people. Older people if you like.
It was funny how anyone in their late fifties was old then.
Women over 60 were regarded as particularly ancient, either totally lovable and sweet, or forever complaining, particularly with small children around. Small children, even your own grandchildren, must be seen and not heard.
Other people's children were `allowed to run wild' and their parents advised that they should remember you could spare the rod and spoil the child.
Men over 60 were slightly better off. They were said to have attained wisdom over the years and could be consulted on such matters as council drains and the correct length to cut the back lawn for its continued health.
`Dad, Jim and Mary's drains are blocked and the lavatory won't flush. What should they do? Dad knows about sewers, you know. Did ours.'
There was no substitute for experience. You could not put a wise head on young shoulders. Everyone realised that, or if they didn't they should, because they were told at every opportunity.
The working class men were obvious. They all had Akubra hats, very greasy at the folds, and carried Gladstone bags.
The Gladstone bag was for taking your lunch away from home and bringing two bottles of beer to it on your return.
A good man (he had earned his couple) drank his beer at home while his wife made the tea. Not dinner. You had that at lunch time.
Lizzie May didn't have a husband. My father said she would die wondering.
That was very cruel, I suppose, but Dad liked her. I think he knew what she had given up.
Lizzie was in the constant business of `looking after Mother'. My grandmother was a widow and expected her eldest daughter to care for her.
Grandma became old in her mid-forties I think, and from then on it was Mother and Lizzie May.
We would invite Mother and Lizzie May for a musical evening. When we'd go on holidays Mother and Lizzie May would care for the house, and finally Mother and Lizzie May came to live with us for a fortnight while they changed digs, and stayed for three years.
That is when I would drive Mother and Aunt Lizzie May to church in town every Sunday, and my Grandmother would tell me to slow down and take care, as there was `precious cargo' aboard.
Later on, when Mother was gone to her reward, Lizzie May would come to dinner with Mum and me.
Mum wouldn't be hungry (These prices are terrible. Can you afford it?) but Lizzie May didn't worry.
She invariably ordered three courses.
Chicken soup always, a main, duck or turkey if they were on the menu, and strawberries and cream.
Mum would worry about the cost throughout her meal but allow herself to be tempted (`It all sounds so nice') and have the same as her older sister.
I used to love taking older people for dinner, and I still do. They alone know how to enjoy their eating.
No false worries about weight, no diet niceties about `correct foods', and no accent on wine or drinks with the meal. Just, there's the tucker, let's get into it.
Most older people are the same. They never seem to miss a meal or a cup of tea and bickies. Invariably hungry. Or hungry enough.
Put on something free and watch the action.
Seniors' Week is to celebrate the older community group, of which I am rapidly approaching, a time to say nice things about them.
I may sound as if I'm teasing them about their readiness to apply the napkin, but I'm not. Anyway, I'm not a young man myself.
The nicest thing I can say is that they are more honest about enjoying the good things of life than their younger fellows.
Good people, good friends, good family.
And good food. And particularly good food.
Lizzie May would have loved Seniors' Week.
© 1999 Newcastle Herald